


To Know in This Body

by coatofflowers



Series: Like a Two-Tailed Cat [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Josephine ages approximately 1000 years, Lavellan also deals with the casual ableism of his advisors/inner circle, Lavellan puts up with some Neurotypical Bullshit and hates it, M/M, Neurodivergent Inquisitor, Pre-Relationship, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, also Lavellan and Dorian have Feelings, neurodivergent OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6951532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coatofflowers/pseuds/coatofflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The exorbitant and complicated social landscape of Orlais would be difficult for any Dalish elf to adjust to, but it's particularly exhausting for Inquisitor Laelion Lavellan. Sure, the Inquisition's forces managed to stop an assassination tonight, but Lavellan only narrowly avoided assassinating himself out of sheer desperation to get out of this horrible, horrible place and all the incredible pressure it puts on him. Luckily his good friend Dorian is there and willing to listen to him.</p><p>This semi-fluffy but also semi-serious short three-piece fic is set during the quest Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, after the day has been saved and before the Inquisition returns to Skyhold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Asphyxiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan is at the Winter Palace. He very, very much doesn't want to be. But he can't leave yet, so he's going to have to find a way to make do, even if it sends his Lady Ambassador/part-time mother into an early grave.

The moon Satina had risen now to its full height, round and half-obscured by trees far beyond the confines of the Winter Palace. The garden below the balcony was unnaturally still in the moonlight, stirred only by the occasional influx of cool wind. Gripping the iron railing, Laelion clenched his teeth and tried with little success to quell the heaviness in the pit of his stomach.

He fidgeted with the collar of his shirt for about the ten-thousandth time tonight, wishing he could just do away with the damned thing entirely. Josephine had made it as loose as possible around his neck but had failed to make it any more comfortable for him, and had failed again at understanding Laelion when he said that, no, it wasn’t that it was too tight, it was just . . . _awful_. There was little piece of extra fabric or something against his ribcage, too, of which Laelion was painfully aware. Upon hearing that complaint Josephine had given an exasperated shrug and said there was nothing she could do about that.

Now the Lady Ambassador was inside with the rest of the Inquisition agents, leaving Laelion alone. Previously during the night he’d come to this balcony whenever he felt on the verge of a panic attack, which had unfortunately been a recurring threat for the past few hours. Fortunately for him, by now most of the incredible stress and near-asphyxiating social pressure had subsided into a sort of bone-deep, mind numbing exhaustion. The party was over, but he knew the Inquisition wouldn’t leave yet. Not until any last hints of mess were mopped up.

 _At least the garden’s pretty,_ Laelion thought numbly, his eyes floating over the stone benches and extravagant flower beds below without really taking much in. Prettier still now that the Orlesians had cleared out. Heaving a sigh, he tried once again to calm himself, to focus on anything other than how shitty he felt. _It was a good night, damn it._ Successful. They did what they came to do. They saved the day, or whatever. Unsurprisingly, that knowledge did little to calm Laelion’s positively frazzled nerves.

Yes, yes, the Empress’s life had indeed been saved, her elven lover was back securely at her side, and a leg of Corypheus’s plans had been sufficiently crippled. It was all very well and good, for both the Inquisition and for greater Orlais. Possibly even for all of Thedas, if one were to really look at what the death of Celene could have wrought upon the world. So Laelion supposed it didn’t matter that he had spent every single excruciating moment of the evening wanting to drown himself in the courtyard fountain.

Why had he even needed to come? He had been named Inquisitor, sure, but as far as he was concerned he was a figurehead—a symbol, nothing more. For Mythal’s sake, he hadn’t even made any of the important decisions that had been made tonight. It’d been Leliana and Cullen, primarily, who had told him precisely what to say to whom and at what time. Why they didn’t come on their own and let him stay at Skyhold was utterly beyond him.

Well. Actually, if they’d let him stay at Skyhold, they would’ve never been able to get him to do something Inquisitorial ever again. So maybe they were onto something, there.

And of course it didn’t help that all of the Inquisition's other agents were clearly able to focus on the mission at hand with ease, rather than having to expend all of their available energy to simply _be_ at the Palace. Laelion had never in his life tried so hard to adjust to a climate as he had tried tonight. As far as he was concerned, Laelion essentially had to pretend to be a completely different person in order to complete this damned mission, and it hadn't been easy to do so. He had to wear the earplugs Sera had gotten him for the first time in a non-combative situation, just so he wouldn’t feel like imploding at all the noise. He had resigned himself to constantly standing for fear of rocking unconsciously if he sat, which was apparently a Bad thing despite the fact that it didn’t hurt anybody. And eye contact. _Fucking_ _eye contact_. For the life of him Laelion couldn’t understand why he had to look these party guests in the face when he couldn’t see most of their damn faces behind their masks anyway, but Josephine had made it clear that eye contact was the very foundation upon which civilized human society was built and that without it Orlais would physically saw itself separated from Ferelden and slough off into the sea, or something. So Laelion met the eye of every fucking noble who came up to him, and he pretended as much as he could possibly pretend to relate to the shit they said, much as it made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

He was certain that his fellow agents noticed his struggling. The Iron Bull had actually called out to him after he’d passed the Qunari’s roost for about the fourth time, apparently looking so out of place and uncomfortable that the Bull cracked some joke about seeing a lost puppy scuttle by not too long ago. Now Laelion didn’t remember exactly how he’d responded, but he was pretty sure he’d just stared at the hulking man blankly, too tense and aggravated and altogether spent to process anything being said to him. With a shake of his freakishly large head and a too-firm pat on the back, Bull had simply advised him to think about something more relaxing until this whole ordeal was over. Which probably would've been a good suggestion for someone. Just not for Laelion, who had been far too exhausted and upset to explain to Iron Bull that he literally  _could not_ do that.

And then there was Josephine. Gods-damned Josephine. Watching the Lady Ambassador spend the night making small talk with nobles had given Laelion a sizable headache. Everything about her demeanor was so precise—her throwaway, measured smiles, her thoughtless little hand gestures. The way that she was apparently able to discern which vague and platitude-laden remarks were meant to be funny, and which ones weren’t, and laugh accordingly. He couldn’t help but resent her for being so at ease in this setting, much as she claimed to be exasperated by the Game.

Of course, the Lady had tried, as had Leliana, Cassandra, Dorian, and pretty much everyone else at different points over the past two months, to bring Laelion up to speed. Originally Josephine had only promised to teach him ballroom dance, but it became clear to her immediately that he needed a lot more instruction than that if he was to fit in at the Winter Palace. The resulting lessons in social etiquette and conversation had been awful. Laelion was criticized for practically _every little thing_ he did—for not making eye contact, for humming, fidgeting, for not smiling in the proper way, for not laughing correctly. It was an arduous and embarrassing process for everyone involved. It had made Laelion feel like a child again, despite Josephine’s constant reassurances that _everyone_ struggled to adapt to the culture of the Orlesian elite. She had been trying to comfort him by saying that. He appreciated the gesture, but couldn't relate to it any more than that.

Laelion hadn’t felt that smallness, that particular type of _difference_ , in a long time. He had hoped not to feel it again. So much had changed since his years in Clan Lavellan, surrounded by those he knew were supposed to treat him like family yet seemed entirely unwilling to include him.

Exhaling, he turned back to the ballroom, squinting for a moment before taking a hesitant step back inside. It was much quieter now, thank Mythal. Many guests had gone home or retreated to more private parts of the Palace to discuss the evening's events. From where he stood he could see Cullen and Josephine, prim in their blood red suits and smart blue sashes, engaged in what looked to be an intense discussion by the buffet table. The Iron Bull reclined against a wall nearby, his single eye turned towards the few unaffiliated guests that lingered in the ballroom. Dorian was seated with what looked to be a plate of small pastries. And Cole—well, the Creators only knew where Cole was, but the boy always seemed to show up when he was needed, so Laelion wasn’t particularly worried about his whereabouts.

For a few seconds Laelion wondered if he should even approach any of them. They were probably hoping to rope him into some sort of debriefing session and stress him out even further with talk of what their next steps would be. The mere thought of talking to anyone else tonight made his head ache.

But he would have to face them eventually, he knew. To talk about how Corypheus would react to what had transpired tonight, and how the Inquisition could best capitalize on the new alliances they’d forged, and—Creators damn it, this _fucking_ _shirt_! He positively could not _stand_ it anymore—he was about ready to explode if he didn't get this fucking thing off his body, _now_. Before his brain had even made a coherent thought he was making a beeline for Josephine and Cullen, interrupting their conversation and allowing himself to not give a fuck about how rude that was.

“Josie, how much did these shirts cost?” Laelion blurted as soon as he had her attention.

The Lady Ambassador regarded him with a look of puzzlement tinged with apprehension which, more often than not, seemed to be reserved exclusively for him. “Ours were one sovereign and thirty-two silvers apiece,” she said, unconsciously touching the collar of her shirt. “With the exception of the Iron Bull’s, which was two sovereigns and eleven silvers. His required a bit more—” She glanced at the aforementioned Qunari, who raised an eyebrow at her in return— “ _tailoring_.”

Laelion blinked at her, then at Dorian, who had turned his attention towards their conversation. Even after seven months entrenched in human culture, words like _sovereign_ and _silver_ were still essentially meaningless jargon to him. “Is that a lot?”

From the table, Dorian scoffed. “For a common man, perhaps it would be. For the likes of the Inquisition it’s small change.”

“Oh, good,” Laelion said, relieved. Without further hesitation he grabbed the collar of his shirt and tore the whole damn thing off, popping off a few of those obnoxious golden buttons in the process. The sound _rrrrrip_  of silk fabric was nearly as satisfying as the sudden and glorious lack of itching pressure at his collarbone. And that horrible, horrible piece of fabric that had been driving him crazy all night. Gone—Creators, he could’ve cried from happiness.

 _Much better. So,_ so _much better._

Josephine was gaping at him. Cullen made a noise somewhere between a snort and a strangled gasp. Laelion, looking at their faces, was dimly aware of the fact that it may not have been appropriate to do what he’d just done, but frankly in his advanced state of complete exhaustion he found it difficult to care.

“I’m going to go outside and pick a direction and keep walking until I hit something resembling nature,” Laelion announced, mostly to Josephine, who looked about ready to drop dead. “I’d appreciate if any Inquisition business could wait for me to get back.”

He looked first at Cullen, then at the Lady Ambassador. Part of him was expecting to be screamed at for breaking what he was sure was another unspoken rule (for the Dalish, casual shirtlessness was hardly anything to bat an eye at). But Josephine just nodded slowly, her face utterly slack. Taking this as a sign that he was in the clear, Laelion gave an awkwardly curt nod and turned to leave. Then, a thought occurred to him.

“Dorian, want to come with?”

He hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to the mage much this evening, and for whatever reason, being with Dorian was even more of a de-stressing experience than being by himself.

The mage got to his feet with astonishing quickness, looking positively delighted, and Laelion didn’t miss the jeer that the he sent in the direction of the dumbstruck Cullen and Josephine. “Oh, yes. Absolutely.”

Laelion gave him another wordless nod and walked out, leaving his discarded shirt in a heap on the floor. The few party guests that remained stopped their mingling to stare at him as he passed, but he couldn’t possibly bring himself to care about whatever it was they were thinking about him now—Lo and behold! he really was just a savage elf all along. As he reached the door to the foyer, he heard Dorian snark from somewhere behind him.

“Something you find particularly striking, Lady Montilyet? If you continue to pull such an expression, you may find yourself stuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading!!  
> this fic is partially just me wanting to explore how my neurodivergent-as-hell inquisitor would deal with the overwhelming and incredibly pressurized environment of the winter palace and all those silly, arbitrary human conventions. also how his relationship with his bf started, but that will come later. i'll probably have the second part up next week.  
> i'm still sort of new to fic writing so i would LOVE to hear any comments, criticisms, suggestions, etc. that you guys have for me!! i hope you enjoyed!


	2. Speaking Unspoken Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside in the gardens of the Winter Palace, Lavellan destroys the lawn, thinks about chamber pots, and has some feelings. Dorian is there too.  
> (Casual ableism ahead—nothing graphic or explicit. Basically just Lavellan reflecting on how people treat him.)

“I thought we were going walking, Inquisitor?”

“Well, I wanted to. But I think if I took a walk right now I’d end up lost.”

“Hmm.” Dorian huffed in offense, although Laelion could tell by the quirk of his mouth that he was just being facetious. “You must think quite lowly of me if you think I’d let you just wander off into the Orlesian country.”

“I think you’re underestimating my ability to get lost,” Laelion said, smiling.

The evening had cooled down substantially even since he was last out on the balcony—or perhaps it was just the garden. There was a special sort of night-peace to the place now; everything was a deep muted blue, and the songbirds had retired, leaving only the cricket hum or the occasional chirp of a frog. He sat against the wall on the far side of the garden, knees to chest, facing the plaza where party guests had stood chitchatting earlier. Dorian luxuriated against the stone wall by his side, looking every bit as prim and put-together as the manicured shrubs around them.

He was surprised that Dorian had agreed to come out here with him at all. The man may have been his closest friend in the Inquisition, but he seemed to have some sort of severe allergy to the unwashed, unperfumed reality of nature. Laelion was somewhat impressed that Dorian was standing beside him on the grass and not just shouting to him from the stone-cobbled patio so he wouldn’t have to be so close to the plants. Had Sera tagged along he would’ve thought it more fit to ask her to accompany him instead, but she had “elected” (read: been sternly encouraged by Josephine) to stay behind at Skyhold. Which everyone, even Sera, agreed was for the best. She shared Laelion’s disdain of elitism, but unlike him, wasn’t too polite to stab people over it.

But, Creators, it would’ve been worth the potential social suicide to bring Sera along. He would’ve been glued to her side the entire night. Josephine would’ve chastised them for staying too close to one another—something about  _ looking suspicious _ , the two scraggly-looking elves, no doubt—but at least the whole affair would’ve been a bit more tolerable with her around. She would’ve imitated people’s accents in that ridiculous way of hers, or made ridiculous faces behind Josephine’s back whenever she was explaining some boring shit, or told all the interested lady guests that Commander Cullen liked having his ass grabbed, or . . . well,  _ something _ . Whatever silly Sera thing she had wanted to do, it would’ve at least distracted Laelion from feeling awful.

Although it wasn’t that he would’ve preferred to be spending time with somebody other than Dorian at the moment. He liked Dorian. Very much. He hadn’t at first—Dorian was a noble from  _ Tevinter  _ of all damnable places, and he spoke like a highborn, and he’d apparently helped develop a sort of time magic that gifted Laelion with a fresh new round of nightmares for about three months?  _ And  _ he was too tall, even for a human.  All these factors combined into a single man would put any Dalish elf on edge. Luckily for Laelion (and for Dorian), the man had effectively proven himself when he brought the pair of them home from that awful red lyrium future—then again at the destruction of Haven—and, as it turned out, many times over after that.

Laelion’s gaze flickered over to a small purple wildflower growing against the stone wall—one of very few survivors of the Palace servants’ apparently very strict lawncare regime. He reached out and plucked it, then held it up to Dorian. “Flower for your thoughts,  _ lethallin _ .” He liked calling Dorian that. It felt earned. Also because he knew his former clanmates would be hemorrhaging if they knew he was referring to a human Tevinter with such an  _ elfy _ term of endearment.

Quirking an eyebrow, Dorian stooped to take the flower from him. He studied it for a silent moment, twirling it between his fingers, then said, “Whomever was hired to play music for the ball tonight ought to be burnt at the stake. They’re positively dreadful.”

Laelion rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you a  _ sovereign  _ if you tell me what you’re  _ actually  _ thinking about.”

“That’s—you haven’t got a sovereign on you, have you?”

Laelion blinked. “Uh. Hmm.” He patted nonexistent trouser pockets a few times before giving Dorian an innocent, big-eyed look.

Dorian scoffed. “Fine.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Truthfully, I’m wondering why you invited me out here.”

“You’re free to go back inside if the  _ nature  _ is troubling you,” Laelion said.

“No, that’s not what I mean. I just thought you would want to be alone.”

“I’ve been alone this whole evening.”

Dorian shrugged mildly. “Fair point.” Laelion took a moment to glance up at him. He was watching the fountain idly, head tilted back against the stone. He seemed tired too, though still frustratingly well-kempt, unlike Laelion who was sure he looked like a living wreck right now. “Still, this evening was a long time coming. You must be glad it’s over.”

Glad? Laelion blinked at that. No, actually, he  _ wasn’t  _ glad. He wasn’t glad at all. It would take  _ days  _ for the post-overexertion numbness to secede give way to his normal rhythm, and if anyone ever mentioned anything about a  _ party _ , even in passing, he’d get the Iron Bull to throw them off the battlements. “Not really.”

“No?” Now there was a twinge of amusement in Dorian’s voice. “You do realize that we won, correct? Or perhaps you were at the chamber pot when Empress Celene made that grand speech about the future of Orlais and—you know, not getting murdered?”

“Alright, there’s no  _ chamber pot _ in the Winter Palace. They’re way too fancy for that.” An unwelcome mental image of an Orlesian noble, dressed neck-to-toe in some outlandish sparkling garb and donning a creepy half-mask, bending to shit in a pot crossed Laelion’s mind. He wrinkled his nose reflexively. “And I’m just—tired, and I still feel sort of terrible. I just want to go home.”

Dorian tutted. “Ah. Yes, I’d imagine this must be a difficult setting for you to acclimate yourself to. Humans in preposterous outfits, speaking in silly accents, thumbing up their noses at anyone who dares toss them an improperly seasoned look. Nobody dancing around lit campfires or frying up dead insects for supper. And hardly a halla in sight.”

“Not true, actually,” Laelion pointed out. “There were those little golden halla statuettes up in the upper level. You saw.”

An incredulous look crossed Dorian’s face. “Those were meant to be hallas?”

“I . . . think? Nobody in Orlais knows what a halla looks like, Dorian.”

“Of course not. That would require leaving the city and stepping onto—dare I say it— _ grass _ .” Dorian made a show of shuddering outlandishly, at which Laelion couldn’t help but chuckle. “But, you must know,  _ any  _ outsider would be exhausted after playing the Game. That’s the nature of it. And Orlais, in general, really.” Frowning, Laelion looked up at him. Their eyes met briefly. “You did wonderfully, Laelion. All that work you did with Josephine certainly paid off.”

The man’s expression was one of friendly approval, his voice warm. But Laelion felt a hot wave of frustration upon hearing his words. He looked stubbornly down at his hands, fidgeting in his lap, not responding immediately. He knew Dorian was just trying to make him feel better, and while his efforts weren’t exactly  _ unappreciated _ , they actually sort of seemed to be having the total opposite effect on him.

“No, it didn’t,” Laelion grumbled, a bit darker than he intended. “It was horrible.”

“ _ Horrible _ ?” Dorian gave an incredulous scoff. “A bit melodramatic, don’t you think? Waltzing isn’t easy for anyone, but—”

“I’m not  _ anyone _ , Dorian,” Laelion snapped hotly, his gaze darting up to meet Dorian’s. “It’s not about  _ waltzing _ , for fuck’s sake.”

A startled silence fell over the man at the harshness of the elf’s tone. He blinked at the elf once, twice, then wordlessly looked away. Laelion thought he saw a flash of annoyance in his expression, or perhaps it was hurt—but, then again, maybe that was just his paranoia talking?

Well, he hadn’t meant to be rude to him. He was just . . .  _ tired _ . Tired of hearing about  _ everyone _ , what  _ everyone  _ was like, how  _ everyone  _ felt. Josephine had been way the same the past few months. He’d wanted to say something to her, but he had stopped himself on a few occasions. She probably wouldn’t have understood what he was talking about anyway. Or she wouldn’t have really cared. The Lady Ambassador was kind to him, but as near as he could tell, this was primarily because he was the Inquisitor and he could change require his advisors to wear plaidweave skirts every day or have all the Skyhold cooks prepare only traditional Dalish meals or just flat-out fire her for any reason, or no reason at all. Not that he would ever do such a ludicrous and self-immolating thing as firing one of the few people actually  _ qualified  _ to run the Inquisition, of course, but he wouldn’t blame Josephine if she was taking some precautionary measures by buttering him up from time to time.

But—Dorian wasn’t like that, was he? He was a genuine man and a dear friend. A dear friend whom he had just uncharacteristically yelled at, and who was currently staring rigidly at some imaginary thing at the far side of the garden. Dorian already knew more about Laelion than anyone else in the Inquisition except for a certain spirit who could literally read minds, and he was one of the only people that didn’t look at Laelion oddly if he started rocking or tapping in their presence, and . . . well, if there was anyone who wouldn’t ostracize him for being earnest right now, it would be him, wouldn’t it?

Besides, Laelion had never really had a frank conversation about himself, with Dorian or with anyone else in the Inquisition. Nobody had ever asked him to. The closest he’d ever come was when several months ago Dorian finally asked him why Varric kept referring to him as “Rocky”. And even then, Dorian’s only response to Laelion’s rather straightforward explanation was a simple and slightly surprised “oh”. And that had been the end of that. He hadn’t asked,  _ why do you do that strange thing that nobody else does?  _ Or,  _ aren’t you humiliated that somebody noticed?  _ Perhaps he hadn’t even wanted to. Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to him to ask those questions—unlikely, but it was a nice thought.

“Look, this isn’t just about being an elf in Orlais, or something,” Laelion said at last, making a real effort to sound gentler, his gaze trained on the ground. “I mean, I’m sure it’s hard for everyone, but for me it’s more—it’s kind of . . . “ Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Dorian’s eyes narrow, thought the man didn’t interrupt. “You know that I’m . . . ” Laelion waved his hands around vaguely before finally concluding with a meek, “ _ different _ .”

“Well, of course,” the other man said after a beat. His frown was almost audible.

“I don’t mean the green hand.” 

At that Dorian chuckled, quiet and polite, not hearty like his genuine laugh. “I  _ know _ , Leon. Why do you mention it?”

“It’s just—Creators, I never know how to explain it to people. It’s like, most everyone just kind of . . .  _ knows  _ the rules, or they just absorb them from being around others. They can just act like everybody else and they don’t have to try. And the rules make sense to them.” Laelion’s frown deepened. “And when you’re not like that, nobody just says, like—’oh, alright, you don’t have to follow those rules then’. Everyone just . . . “ He trailed off, uncertain of how to continue, or if he even should.

“What rules do you mean?”

Laelion chanced a glance up at the man. He was watching the Inquisitor intently now, brow creased in an expression of either puzzlement or concern, or maybe some mixture of both. He was making an attempt to understand—that much was apparent, at least. Encouraged, Laelion went on.

“You know, like . . . ” Upon realizing that, no, Dorian probably  _ didn’t  _ know, he scrunched up his nose and thought of some of the things that Josephine had previously scolded him for in her incredulous and exasperated way. “You have to look at people when they talk to you. But not too much, right? Or else it’s rude. You  _ definitely  _ can’t start humming or smiling at something else when somebody’s talking to you, because that’s rude. And if you didn’t hear what they said, you can only ask them to repeat it  _ once _ , or else that’s rude, too. And you’d better reply to them as soon as they’re done talking, for some . . .  _ stupid reason _ .” He scowled at the grass, bitterness seeping into his every word. “And Creators fucking  _ forbid _ you start wringing your hands or rocking or something like that. Then you’re making a scene. It doesn’t matter how you feel, if you want to scream and cry and pull your hair out, because all that matters is being  _ presentable _ , right? All that matters is looking good for the  _ fucking  _ Inquisition.”

By the end of this half-rant, over the course of which Laelion had been getting closer and closer to the threshold of tears, and his face had grown increasingly hotter, Dorian was all but staring at the elf in surprise. Laelion stopped speaking rather abruptly, wiping at an eye with the heel of his palm. The unbridled sourness of his tone had caught even  _ him  _ off guard. He hadn’t realized he was so angry over this. Irritated and anxious, yes, uncomfortable and lost—but  _ angry _ ? Angry at whom—Josephine? The Empress? His former clan? The whole of Thedas?

Was he angry at Dorian, for not understanding? Or angry at himself for being someone not easily understood?

There was a decidedly uncomfortable silence before Dorian eventually spoke up, his voice soft and careful, nearing delicate. “I’ve seen you do a lot of those things. You’ve never expressed trepidation about anything like that before.”

Laelion let out a long sigh. His frustration had flared, and already it was tapering off, giving way to the tiredness that he’d been fighting back all night. “That’s because I’m  _ used  _ to you. And you’re used to me. You don’t even look at me when we’re talking, most of the time, because you know I’m not going to be looking at you. But you look at everyone else. Do you realize that?”

Another pause. Laelion interpreted the silence as meaning, no, Dorian  _ hadn’t  _ realized that. But Laelion had. The mage was one of very few people in his life to ever seem to adjust to  _ him _ , rather than burdening Laelion with that expectation, and Laelion was grateful for it, although he’d never found the right time and place to express that to Dorian before.

He sighed again, more of a huff this time. “It’s just—fuck,  _ everybody  _ wants me to be different, Dorian,” he said. “They won’t say it, but I can tell.”

“Different in what way?” Dorian asked quietly.

_ In every way. _

No, that wasn’t a real answer. Laelion fumbled for several moments, pulling at the grass with a particular ferocity, before finally giving up on developing a sufficient response to that question. Truthfully, he'd never even thought about that it in any sort of in-depth way. “Like them, I guess,” he said eventually, lamely.

A soft  _ hmmm _ was the man’s only reply. Laelion remained silent, throat constricted, lips pressed to a hard line, even when Dorian came over and sat down beside him, taking care not to snag his shirt on the stone wall. Neither man spoke for a few tense moments. The elf sniffled.

“Well,” Dorian sighed, brushing some dirt off his knee, casual as ever, “that’s a shame. I’d be severely put out if you changed anything about yourself.”

Laelion sniffled again and swatted Dorian’s arm. “Charmer.”

“Ah, I do like charming you.” A smile, gentle and friendly. Despite himself, Laelion felt compelled to give him a tiny smile back. “I do mean it, however. I . . . I didn’t realize this was so difficult for you.” He paused. “I don’t believe Lady Montilyet did either. She wouldn’t have pushed you so hard if she had.”

“No, I know.” The elf shut his eyes momentarily, exhaling. “Believe me, I know. I just can’t help feeling . . . stupid, I suppose.”

“I suppose I can understand why you would. But you must know that you’re anything but.” Laelion’s eyes blinked open and darted to the face of the man sitting beside him, meeting his gaze, if only for a moment. “You’ve got the quickest wit in the Inquisition, to begin.”

Laelion’s eyebrows shot up. “Quicker than yours?”

Sighing, Dorian looked away towards the garden. “Very well,” he said with an exaggerated dreariness, as if it pained him. “Second quickest.” His faux-surly expression dissolved into a snicker when Laelion swatted him again. 

Another period of quiet settled upon the two men, though this time it was an easy weightless silence, disturbed only by the hissing of the wind through the grass and shrubs. Laelion let himself breathe slowly, in and out. He could taste the bright sweetness of nearby flowers on the air. He could rock in the first time in far, far too many tense hours, and it felt  _ unexplainably  _ good. His shoulder brushed Dorian’s every time he moved, and the thought that he should scoot away and give the other man more space briefly flitted across his brain before he tiredly discarded it.

Eventually it was he who spoke again, clearing his throat quietly. “Thanks, Dorian. You don’t know how good it feels to say all that.” In his peripheral vision he saw the man looked at him, a formless smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’m—sorry that I sort of unloaded on you—”

“Yes, yes, it’s quite alright. I’m terribly easy to talk to. It’s a burden of which I’m well aware.” Laelion didn’t miss the wry smirk that the other man sent his way, eyes twinkling, mustache curled just so. The elf couldn’t help but smile at it, even as he turned his gaze back down to his hands.

“Is Orlais at all like Tevinter?” he said after a moment, happy to change the subject to something a bit lighter.

“The lower points are, perhaps.” Dorian was rolling the wildflower Laelion had given him between his thumb and finger in thought. “Without the weight of the Imperium, of course. And the, er—”

“The slavery?” he quipped, glancing at him.

Dorian furrowed his brow. “Yes. Without that.”

The elf hummed. “And the cakes, I bet.”

At that Dorian chuckled—maybe a bit relieved to not have to engage in another _slavery_ discussion. “We have little cakes of our own, of course. But, regardless, the Inquisition is quite fortunate to be able to count me amidst its ranks when it comes to situations like these,” he said, adjusting the cuff of a sleeve. “Yours truly has developed quite the tolerance of political squabble. Although I fear I’d be lying if I said I’ve never been tempted to rip expensive shirts off of my body out of frustration with having to deal with it.”

Laelion continued to hum, still rocking. “I wouldn’t mind if you did that right now.”

Surprised, Dorian blinked at him. Laelion paused and, unperturbed, blinked back. Then he chuckled and shut his eyes, rubbing his forehead with his unmarked palm. That was maybe . . . too forward for their state of casual flirting. “Sorry. I’m exhausted.”

Dorian laughed. “My dear Inquisitor, pray that there will never come a day when I accept apologies for such remarks.”

“Right.” The elf grinned. “Sera is pretty convinced that an act of humility by you would bright about the end of the world faster than Corypheus.”

Dorian nudged Laelion’s shoulder with his own, playful. “ _ Sera  _ is madder than an ogre with an arrow in its asscheek. I’m sure I’ve told you before not to listen to that imp.”

Laelion laughed. Then immediately yawned, so wide that Dorian appeared to be mildly impressed with him.  _ Creators _ , he felt like dropping dead, right through the Fade and into the Void. The heat of his previous anger and frustration had drained just about the last ounce of his expendable energy. Still half coming down from yawning, he settled his head on Dorian’s shoulder, not giving any real conscious thought to what he was doing. The man didn’t tense or shrink away, though Laelion thought he heard a low chuckle rumble through his chest.

“Hmph.” Of course, Dorian feigned offense anyway. “You aren’t planning on napping on me, are you?”

“Not at all,” Laelion lied, shutting his eyes.

“Good. I am no one’s pillow.” Though Laelion couldn’t see the mage’s face, he could tell from the tone of his voice that he was smiling. “Not even yours.”

The elf didn't reply, merely stifling another yawn. After a few moments Dorian shifted around slightly, getting more comfortable in his seat. Laelion gave a contented sigh. This moment of reprieve would be only temporary—the rest of the Inquisition would come looking for them soon, no doubt about it. But if Laelion could rest for even ten minutes it would be enough, at least until he could get back to Skyhold and bury himself in his blankets.

A few minutes later, the elf sniffed, adjusting his position against Dorian's shoulder.  “Thank you, Dorian,” he said again, quietly. "I mean it."

“Of course, my friend. Any time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally finished this chapter. woo!
> 
> also, the title of this piece—"to know in this body"—is a reference to a victoria redel surrealist poem of the same name. the content of the poem has nothing at all to do with the story, but i thought the title fit something which talks indirectly about embodied experience, so cx
> 
> i hope you enjoyed reading! feel free to leave me your comments or feedback :D


	3. Body Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moon is high. The wind is low. Lavellan is shameless and Dorian is uncharacteristically skittish. Somewhere Mother Giselle slowly takes a seat, clutching her chest and frowning, sensing that she's going to have to put up with a lot of shit sometime in the near future.

Midnight came and went, quiet and untraceable.

Dorian was by all means surprised that he and the Inquisitor had been left on their own for so long—though it had only been maybe an hour and a half at most. He could still hear the sounds of the others talking, even if their words were too muffled and blurred to pick out. He had been waiting for the end of their conversation since his own with Laelion had ended, figuring that as soon as they were done speaking with one another they would seek out the Inquisitor. For Laelion’s sake he hoped they would continue to speak among themselves for a while.

He was also surprised that Laelion had actually fallen _asleep_ on him. It was chilly, for one thing, even though the breeze was slight, and they weren’t particularly _comfortable_. Dorian had just assumed that Laelion had gone quiet like he often did until he heard soft snores coming from very near his ear. For the past twenty minutes or so Dorian had remained as still as possible, not wanting to disturb the elf, and also maybe a bit flustered by the proximity of their bodies, and also possibly a tad irritated that he was being used as an expensive and handsome headrest.

In Tevinter such a display of physical affection between men, innocent as it was, would likely be grounds for circulating gossip. Halamshiral would have been the same if anyone was still around to witness it. _Kaffas_ , even their very own Inquisition was not above a little bit of rumor-spreading. Josephine would be tutting like a disturbed hen if she saw the two of them like this, so  _out of bounds_. The Iron Bull would make lewd gestures at him for a year. And Sera . . . well, Sera already teased him a lot, so that probably wouldn't change.

Maybe in other circumstances, at another time, the prospect of being the subject of such rumor would have bothered him in some way. But that was no longer quite the case. Dorian had grown into a thick-skinned man, to begin. And, well, a good friendship was worth risking some rumor, wasn't it?

Laelion had always been very different to him, very unexpected and new. In the beginning it had been a shallow thing, but once the novelty of Laelion’s pointed ears and glowing hand wore off, and Dorian realized just _how much_ there was to the man . . . well, Dorian didn’t really think of himself as a reserved man, but he had never grown attached to someone so quickly. To begin, the elf was just _interesting_ , a trait which he was finding few people in Ferelden seemed to possess. (Then there was the fact that he was adorable, which Dorian occasionally noticed, acknowledged, and proceeded to bury deep within the senseless hodgepodge pit of his feelings. For his own sake.)

There had been talk, of course, when the two started to become close. Laelion didn’t seem to mind—Dorian had directly witnessed him receive a pointy earful of the _reputation_ and _appearances_ and _everyone hates Tevinters in case you forgot_ talk from Mother Giselle, nod politely at her, then turn on his heel and head straight for Dorian’s corner of the library. He simply didn’t _care_ , and that alone was reason enough for Dorian to value their friendship tremendously, and also sort of fear it. It felt at once disarming and oddly comforting to be so genuine with another person. If only his mother could hear the graceless words that came out of his mouth in the elf’s company.

Idly his gaze flickered down to Laelion’s left hand, resting on the elf’s thigh. The faint glow of the mark was barely visible, casting the impression of a green outline on his black trousers. From what he could see it looked to be flickering. Possibly in correlation to the Inquisitor’s dreams, although he’d seen it flare up many times before for seemingly no reason, so it was difficult to ascertain just what caused its activity. He wondered.

Then, hesitation. It would be easy to get a closer look . . . and, well, the elf was fast asleep, and he was curious. He reached across the other man's lap and carefully turned his hand palm-up, exposing the Mark. For several moments Dorian merely squinted at it, trying to make some sense of it—the shape was rather irregular, and it was a bit difficult to exactly define its parameters, what with the whole glowing business. Curiosity getting the better of him, Dorian pressed his palm lightly against the elf's. 

 _Hmmm._ The light tingling sensation, like a feather drawn across his palm, was quite familiar to Dorian’s experienced hands—it felt almost as if Dorian were readying a spell of his own, although of course without bone-deep rush of arcane energy that spellcasting entailed. And even so, it wasn’t exactly the same. Warmer, for one. A bit more—well, how might one describe it? _Prickly_. As if his hand had lost circulation. Dorian furrowed his brow slightly in thought, wondering if the sensation was the same for Laelion. The elf had certainly never acted like his hand bothered him. Perhaps by now he had simply ceased to notice it. It had been some time since the Conclave, after all, and Laelion tended to be preoccupied with other things these days.

Then there was the issue of the green glow. Dorian moved his hand so he could see it without obstruction. Its color was more or less explainable—the Breach had been the same sickly shade, as well as the rifts. The reason for the _glowing_ , however, was a different matter. Although he supposed the rifts appeared to exhibit the same glowing and ebbing property . . . though usually, if a rift flared up like that, it signaled an impending demon attack. Maker, it would be quite an unwelcome surprise if _demons_ started pouring out of the Inquisitor’s hand.

“ _Lethallin_ —?” Laelion’s voice, rasped and bleary with sleep, jolted Dorian out of his thoughts. Well. Shit _._

“Mmm?”

“What’re you doing?”

 _Shit._ Dorian felt a surge of heat race from the pit of his chest to his face. He would _not_ , however, allow his flustered state to become known. He was a Pavus after all.

“Examining this peculiar mark of yours.” The casual canter of his voice, to Dorian’s credit, betrayed nothing of his sheepishness at getting caught. “It occurred to me that I’ve never truly been able to see it up close before.”

The elf paused—to decide if he bought that explanation, Dorian thought in a moment of paranoia, until he heard a yawn next to his ear. “And? What’s your conclusion?”

“Well.” Well. All of his observations had been rather . . . idle, actually. “This may shock you, but I’ve deduced that it may be—” here he paused for dramatic emphasis— “ _magical_ in origin.”

Laelion gave a faux-dramatic groan. “You really think?”

Dorian shook his head slowly, removing his fingers from Laelion’s in what he _hoped_ was a smooth and unassuming motion. “I’m afraid there is no other possible explanation.”

“Shit.” The elf shifted his weight, but curiously, didn’t lift his head from the taller man’s shoulder. “Now I know I’m fucked.”

Dorian gave a dry chuckle. “You always are, when magic’s involved.” He took Laelion’s facetious tone to mean that he was content not to dwell on Dorian examining the Mark, which was a relief, and he allowed himself a sly exhale. Really there was no reason _why_ he should get all embarrassed about it. It wasn’t as though he was doing anything wrong. “Does it cause you pain?”

“No. Most of the time it doesn’t do anything.” Laelion flexed the hand in question. “I forget it’s there.”

“Ah. Like a tattoo you don’t quite remember getting.”

The elf scoffed quietly at that, but said nothing more, his marked hand fidgeting for a few more moments before it went still. Dorian felt the man’s head shift on his shoulder. Brow creased, he glanced over at him—and froze.

Laelion was looking up at him now, and their faces were very close. Very, _very_ close.

The kohl which Dorian himself had subtly applied to the outer corners of Laelion’s green eyes (“Only the outside,” the Inquisitor had said. “If you do too much I’ll look like a cat.”) had smudged into a thick smoky line, clinging to his dark lower lashes in clumps and effectively making him look even more blanched and tired than he already did. His dark curls, which Josephine had spent many painstaking minutes combing into some semblance of uniformity, had sprung back into their natural disheveled array. And his freckles and moles—Dorian had noticed them, of course, but he hadn’t realized just how many the elf had. They were all over, from the light ones patterning his cheeks to the larger, darker moles creating formless constellations across his face. He knew from the battle-shameless nights out in the Hinterlands that the rest of Laelion’s skin—or his torso and arms, at least—was similarly adorned. Why Varric didn’t call the elf “Spots” instead was a mystery. A missed opportunity to be sure.

The distinct thought that Laelion was _pretty_ rang through his mind. Not handsome, or gorgeous, or particularly elegant, as people back in Tevinter tended to think all elves were. But pretty, in a very atypical sort of way. A way that allowed for huge cat eyes and crooked smiles.

He expected the elf to look away once their gazes met, as he always did—but he didn’t. Dorian found himself oddly captivated by the intensity of Laelion’s stare, the complicated show of color and refracted light that made up his irises. A bizarrely long moment of silence and unbroken gazing passed between the pair of them. Feeling a bit uncomfortable and a bit warm, Dorian eventually blinked. “Er. Perhaps we should—”

Then he was being kissed, hard and solid. The shock of it was warm, but it hit Dorian like a wave of ice water, numbing and extinguishing the confused thoughts that had started to form in his head. Dorian wasn’t even fully conscientious of the elf’s hand on his face until he felt that familiar prickle of the Mark’s arcane energy across his right cheek.

A voice in Dorian’s head said, in perfect clarity, _This is not a good idea._

But he didn’t stop. His hand slid up the elf’s side almost of its own volition, skin against warm skin. The Maker knew that Dorian Pavus was no stranger to kissing, but this . . . this was in some language he had never learned. He was well-versed in hot and breathy, near fluent in harsh and bruising—sinful, searing kisses, oversensitized to prying ears and eyes. But not this. How could he describe this?

Laelion hummed for a moment—briefly treating Dorian to the rather peculiar sensation of someone else’s voice vibrating through his mouth—as his marked hand slid through the mage’s hair. Dorian kissed him and tried to get his mind to stop spinning. The elf didn’t have experience; he could tell by the clumsiness of it. Nor did he have the sense of urgency that characterized men in Tevinter. Laelion’s mouth moved so _slowly_ . Like time itself was lagging, or . . . something more elegant than that which Dorian’s frazzled mind couldn’t come up with right then, because he had specifically and pointedly promised himself he _wouldn’t_ start crushing on his best friend—he would allow himself some casual friendly flirting, and maybe some closeted pining here and then if it came to that, but he would _strictly_ avoid any situations in which Feelings could emerge. And in the event of the emergence of Feelings, even in spite of his precautions, Dorian had told himself he would pull away from the whole situation with the expedience of a child recoiling from hot iron, because he knew the recklessness of his own heart.

Then he would confine himself to the library every day until his the librarians got tired of his cowering and kicked him out. Or perhaps he would simply flee to Antiva, shave his head, change his name, perhaps move addresses every few months for good measure, all to avoid the embarrassment and disappointment and pain that would surely follow such a development. Dorian had been stung before, but to be stung by _Laelion_ , well . . . some days the elf was the only thing that made the chaos of the Inquisition bearable. And yes, he had sort of _laid himself bare_ , as it were, more than he had to anyone in years—because it was so easy, because Laelion was patient and interested and listening. Perhaps back at home, with someone else, he would have said _fuck it_ —if something’s there then it’s there, and there’s no use edging around it. But he couldn’t take his friendship with someone so close down that familiar path of passion and detachment.

And yet, here he was, kissing his aforementioned best friend in a lavish Orlesian garden and finding out that perhaps he had been foolish all along. What a novel twist.

An unintelligible amount of time passed before the two parted with a loud, decidedly _wet_ sound. Hot-faced, heart pounding, Dorian didn’t dare open his eyes until he felt the elf shift away from him. When he did—eyes flitting first to the ground, and then up to Laelion’s face—he saw that the damn elf had the utter nerve to _blush_ a little.

“Sorry,” Laelion said, looking away to the garden. The quiet tone of his voice was dangerously close to sheepish, about as close as Dorian had ever heard him come. Yet in his bewildered staring he realized that there was a tiny quirk to one corner of Laelion’s mouth, betraying a smug pleasure. Of course. Never quite one for _true_ bashfulness or embarrassment, was he?

And what was that drivel he had said? _Sorry_ ? Dorian had heard man sputter a great many ridiculous things in his near three decades of life, but never had he heard someone _apologize_ for _a kiss_. Not to mention that he wasn’t actually sure, at this moment, if the man was teasing him or not. The former was more likely. He didn’t know how to respond to either possibility.

“Were you, um.” Laelion conspicuously wiped the corner of his mouth. “Were you about to say that we should go back inside?”

“Uh.” Dorian couldn’t remember. “Er, yes. Maybe. Yes.”

“Yeah. We should, huh?” The elf glanced back at him. A smile, small and private and perhaps a bit mischievous, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry for falling asleep on you.”

Dorian smiled back briefly, then dropped it, hoping he didn’t look too disheveled and shell-shocked. He still felt warm. “. . . Laelion?”

“Yes?” The elf was, notably, not making any effort to stand up. He was smiling at the grass and wringing his hands, a particular type of fidgeting that Dorian had learned was an expression of excitement and anxiety.

“I, erm.” He frowned, contemplating dropping it—but no, it would nag at him if he didn’t say it. “This may be an exceedingly foolish thing to say at this moment, but I wasn’t aware you, er . . . like _men_?” Laelion had only ever mentioned one past lover, and it had been a woman. Not to mention that he used to spend so much time with Sera, generating all sorts of rumors about their relationship . . . well, Dorian had just _assumed_.

Laelion blinked at the ground. “Of course I do. I like _you_.” He said it as though it were the simplest thing to admit. Dorian stared at him dumbly, feeling at once silly and flattered and unreasonably _tingly_.

An uncomfortable silence befell the pair of them, then the elf laughed, shaking his head. “ _Fenedhis_. Mythal's bones, I feel like my head is spinning. We should go inside, yeah? Let’s—let’s go in.”

Dorian felt bizarrely compelled to laugh along, awkward and disjointed as the resulting noise was. He would not admit that he was also experiencing something approximating head-spinning at the moment. He stood a bit too quickly, brushing dust off of his trousers and also conveniently keeping his attention trained inward while Laelion rose as well. The elf slid him a look, the nature of which Dorian couldn't quite make out in his peripheral vision. Then he was turning away.

"You think Josephine's going to have my head as soon as I walk in there?" The elf's voice was casual once again.

"She'll have your shirt, at the very least. You left it on the floor."

"Right, and she'll make me personally apologize to the tailor, I'm sure." Laelion cast a brief look back at him, smiling again, equal parts warm and fleeting. "Well, it doesn't matter, anyway. Let's go home."

Something in Dorian's chest twisted in a way that was neither unfamiliar nor unpleasant. He smiled back. "Yes. Let's."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe this took me seven million years to write. this should've gone up sooner, but i've had so much to do lately D: sorry for the wait. thanks for reading!
> 
> part of the hang up was that there was a lot of Gay in this chapter and i needed to make sure i was doing it some sort of justice lol
> 
> anyway, this was a fun fic to write. i've always wanted to write something about how i imagine these two kind of "officially" started to be a Thing.
> 
> i'm planning on some longer stuff soon -- maybe a modern AU, with more characters, and more shenanigans. stay tuned! and, as always, please let me know what you thought! C:


End file.
